“Consider all the cosmic forces that have brought us to the end of this pier. Your parents, my job, your uncle, summer camp. All of these unseen forces have led us here, and the chance that we have is only going to last for a brief period of time. Just like a wave. I say we catch it as soon as we can and ride it until the very last part dissolves into the sand. I say that we shoot . . . for perfection.”
I don’t wait for him to respond. Instead I reach around, put my hand on the back of his neck, and pull him gently toward me as I begin to kiss him. I can taste the salt air on his lips, and when I close my eyes I lose myself in those lips. It is wonderful and exciting. It’s more than I ever would have dreamed could have happened. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t ignore the clock that starts in my head. Even as I kiss him I can hear it ticking away.
Fifty-five days and counting.
I want you . . . to name which five members of the Continental Congress were selected to write the Declaration of Independence.”
I blink, rub the sleep out of my eyes, and try to refocus. Much to my horror I realize that it’s not a nightmare. Uncle Sam really is accosting me in the kitchen. Okay, it’s my father in an Uncle Sam costume, but it’s still pretty nightmarish.
“What?” I mumble with a sleepy yawn.
“I want you,” he says, exaggerating the pose to look like the famous Uncle Sam poster, “to name which five members of the Continental Congress were selected to write the Declaration of Independence.”
Normally, I make it a rule to ignore my father when he’s in costume. And you’d be surprised by the frequency with which I have to invoke this rule. But that’s impossible at the moment because he’s blocking my access to the refrigerator.
“I just want to get some milk for my cereal,” I moan. “Why does there have to be a quiz?”
“Because it’s the Fourth of July and your father’s an American history teacher,” he says, as though that were a reasonable explanation. “C’mon. Give me the names.”
I can tell that he’s not giving up, so I rack my brain. “I’m pretty sure one was Thomas Jefferson.”
“Yes,” he says, no doubt perturbed that I’m only “pretty sure.”
“And you’ve gotta figure that Ben Franklin was there, right?”
“He was.”
He waits for more, and all I do is shrug.
“That’s it?”
“It’s seven in the morning and I’m in the middle of summer vacation,” I say. “You should be happy that I got that many.”
He shakes his head in total disappointment. “That’s two out of five. That’s only forty percent. Do you find forty percent acceptable?”
“I’m only getting two percent milk, so yeah,” I say with a wicked smile. “That leaves thirty-eight percent for later.”
Rather than continue our back and forth history lesson, I wedge my way past him, grab the milk and orange juice, and head for the table.
“John Adams, Robert Livingston, and Roger Sherman were the others,” he says. “In case you were wondering.”
“Thanks,” I answer as I pour the milk over my cereal. “But I wasn’t.”
Despite my current—and I would argue quite defensible—lack of excitement, Fourth of July is a huge deal in Pearl Beach. It’s the busiest day of the year for tourists, and we really give them their money’s worth. The celebration starts off in the morning with the Patriots Parade, continues all afternoon with live music at the bandshell, and concludes with a huge fireworks display over the pier.
I don’t want to be a buzz kill for my dad, so I try to engage in some conversation. “Is your band marching in the parade this year?”
“Yes,” he says with glee, unwilling to let my mood dampen his enthusiasm. “And we’re playing the two o’clock set at the bandshell.”
I swallow a spoonful of cereal and chuckle. “You love saying that you’re playing a ‘set,’ don’t you?”
“I almost said that we had a ‘gig,’ but I thought you might give me a hard time about it.”
“I definitely would have.”
Every year on the Fourth of July my dad and a bunch of other guys he knows form a band they call the Founding Fathers. It’s perfect not only because he gets to dress up as Uncle Sam, but also because it blends three of his greatest loves: music, American history, and bad puns.
“Are you going to sing my song?” I ask, giving him my best doe eyes.
My song is “Isabel,” an old country song by John Denver that my father used to sing to me when he’d put me to bed.
“I don’t know,” he says, playing hardball. “Our set’s only for thirty minutes and we’ve got a lot of songs.”
“Seriously? That’s your answer?”
He nods and we have a little stare off before I finally relent.
“Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, Pennsylvania, and Virginia.”
“And why are you suddenly listing states?”
“Because those are the colonies that John Adams, Roger Sherman, Robert Livingston, Ben Franklin, and Thomas Jefferson represented in the Continental Congress.”
“You knew all along.”
“Of course I did. You’ve only made me watch 1776 about a thousand times.”
“Then why’d you act like you didn’t know?”
I give him a look. “Because I don’t want to encourage you to give me pop quizzes every morning.”
He smiles broadly. “That’s my girl.”
“Now what about my song?” I ask.
“I guess you’ll have to come and find out,” he answers. But as he walks out of the kitchen I can hear him start to sing, “Isabel is watching like a princess from the mountains . . .”
Today would be the perfect day to hang out with Ben, except we’re both busy for huge chunks of it. He’s marching with the campers in the parade and working at the bandshell during the concert. Meanwhile, I’m going in early to help set up at Surf Sisters and working the late shift tonight. If I’m lucky, I’ll get out in time to catch some of the fireworks. I’m pretty sure our paths will cross a few times during the festivities, but there are no guarantees as to when.
I ride my bike to the shop, and when I get there, I’m surprised to see Nicole standing in the parking lot wearing her band uniform.
“You know I’m all about seeing you in the funny hat, but shouldn’t you be lining up for the parade?”
“I’ve got about twenty minutes,” she says.
I lock my bike to the rack and reply, “I’m sure we’ve got the inventory all covered. You should go hang out with the drum line. And by drum line I mean you should go hang out with Cody.”
“I will,” she says. “But Mickey called me first thing and asked me to come in. She said that she wanted to talk to the whole staff.”
Mickey and Mo must be concerned about something, because the Fourth is our biggest sales day of the year. I assume they want to make sure that everyone’s ready. But when I walk into the shop and see them talking in hushed tones, I begin to worry that something’s wrong. Typically they’re upbeat, but there are no smiles today.
Mickey steps forward first and does a quick head count to make sure we’re all here. Including the two of them, there are ten of us in total, and while I’m closest to Sophie and Nicole, I think of everyone as my extended family.
“We really hate to do this today,” Mickey says. “The Fourth is such a big day for the beach, and we know how much of a zoo it can be. But there are some developments that are about to become public, and we want to make sure that you hear them from us first.”
Now I am really worried. Mickey is getting teary and has trouble continuing, so Mo puts an arm around her and picks up where she left off.
“After thirty-three years of doing what we love . . . we are sorry to announce that . . . this is going to be the last summer for Surf Sisters. We’re closing down the shop at the end of September.”
She continues speaking, but I literally do not hear another word while my mind tries to process what she has just said. I know this sounds melodramatic, but I can’t overemphasize how important the shop has been to me. I look around and realize that everyone else is equally stunned. This is our place. This cannot be happening.